The House That Love Built

Geraldine Hertz

In the middle of the night, as we all slept in the
upstairs of the old, drafty farmhouse, a strange feeling
awakened me. Many be it's a spider, I thought. You can't
be sure in this old rickety house. I switched on the bed
lamp and drew back in horror. There, standing with
forepaws against the sheet, stood a huge grey rat, and
the sheet was wet where it had been drooling against my
ear.

'Joe!' I gasped. 'Do something!'

Joe took one look and leaped out of bed. As he did so,
the rat pulled himself away from the bed and ambled a
few feet away, thoroughly unafraid. I think it was his
utter unconcern for us, as though we were intruders in
his domain that staggered us so. Joe grabbed a tube from
the Electrolux that was standing against the wall where
I had left it the day before. He gave a mighty swing at
the rat, smashed my bedroom scales to bits, bent the
vacuum cleaner tube and missed the rat.

The moth-eaten-looking grey body jumped into a half open
drawer and looked at us, drawing his lips back over his
sharp teeth in a snarl of contempt. I leaped through the
bedroom door. Then with the door nearly closed I peeked
back in.

'Go downstairs and bring my .22' Je said quietly. 'The
next time I won't miss.'

I hurried down the chilly hall and into the damp
downstairs where my father was sleeping. I could imagine
what thoughts would pour through his mind if he woke up
in the night as a shot went off in our bedroom.

I shook my father's shoulder until he wakened, and
explained the situation to him that he was not to panic
when he heard a shot, that Joe was killing a rat. He
nodded and sat up i n bed, lighting his pipe.

Turning back to the business at hand, I took the pistol
out of its cabinet and hurried back upstairs. I passed
it through the door. Joe took the gun quietly and aimed
carefully so as not to startle his prey. I heard him
pull back the trigger. The, as he aimed, the rat leaped
out of the drawer and halfway across the room but the
bullet hit him in mid-air and he dropped. I flung the
door open and watched to make sure he was dead.

'Get the dust-pan to carry him out with, and some paper
towels and bleach water,' Joe said. 'He didn't bleed
much.'

I shuddered and went downstairs again.

'It's okay, Pop,' I said. 'Now go to sleep and we'll see
you in the morning.'

It was good advice, but when the rodent had been disposed
od, I couldn't take my own advice. How do you lay your
head down on a pillow that still has the drool of a rat
on it?

I sat for awhile on the edge of the bed, and then went
for fresh sheets, fresh bleach water for the mattress
and even fresh blankets. And still I couldn't sleep. It
was not only my own revulsion that made me sick at the
thought of the proximity of rats, but my eighteen month
old baby who was sleeping peacefully not ten feet from
where the rat had been. What if he'd spit up a little
and the rat had decided to nibble against his ear? I
knew the horrible statistics, that many children lose
ears or parts of fingers in this way every year right
here in America! I made up my mind that we would leave
this old ramshackle house that was not better than a
slum.

I spent the rest of the night in the kitchen making plans
and, when Joe came downstairs for breakfast four hours
later, I was ready. I poured his coffee and set his
waffle before him. My father joined us in our breakfast
before the children were awake. This can be the
quietest, nicest time of the day. Our ten children would
soon be coming down, and then the early morning
stillness would dissolve like mist in the sunshine.

But this morning neither the rising crescendo of
awakening children not the warmth of the spring morning
outside could penetrate my dreadful knowledge that we
were living in a slum. Never mind that the creek gurgled
by not twenty feet from he kitchen window. And never
mind the freedom of the farm for the children, and the
advantages of running barefoot through spring grass, and
all the other blessings of growing up on the farm.
Freedom from urban cares we had. But rats we had
too.

'Joe,' I said as I sat down opposite him. 'we've got to
have a new house.'

The bite of waffle stopped halfway to his moth. He didn't
answer right away. He was only forty six years old, but
this morning there was a slump to his shoulders that I
had never seen before.

'You know I want one too,' he said, 'but who'd ever loan
us the money, when we have all these kids? You know I've
tried.' His eyes were damp. His dark hair showed signs
of grey at the temples, but he was still a handsome,
hardworking man.

'Joe, do you mind if I try? This isn't the first time
those rats have scared me. But it's the first time
they've been so bold. We need a house that's
rat-proof.'

'Do what you like about it,' he said, 'but in the
meantime I'll get some rat poison - that'll get rid of
them again, at least for a while.'

I nodded. Poison always scared me, because it was hard to
find places where a child could never possibly
reach.

'Joe,' Pop said as he joined us, 'I don't know whether
you can get a loan to build, but if you do, then count
me in. I'll build your cabinets, and any other carpentry
work that you'll let me do.' Pop was a small, determined
man, and when he spike you could always depend on him.
Already I felt better. He built several of the houses
we'd lived in as I was growing up. he was retired now,
and a little slow perhaps, but anything he did was done
well.

Joe nodded as he left for work. As a long-shoreman and
part-time farmer, he always wanted good fences, good
cattle and good machinery. He had given all his strength
for his family and his farm, but it was never enough -
not with rising prices and the spiralling needs of our
growing family.

He loved and wanted every single child God had given us,
yet we had to admit that it cost to care for them. I
smiled grimly as I heard the kids fight about whose turn
it was to use the bathroom.

'Stop it!' I commanded. 'Let Tom in first. He's the
smallest!' And to myself I thought - two bathrooms! Now
that's what we'll have in our new house!

Breakfast and getting children off to school took nearly
two hours, but at last Pop and I were having a leisurely
cup of coffee alone, while the preschoolers played. It
was quiet for now.

'Would you mind the babies for me today and let me shop
for a loan?' I asked.

'Okay,' he answered, 'And take your time. I'll be drawing
up a house plan you might like.'

I hurried upstairs and dressed very carefully. I knew
that every prospective creditor I would see would look
me over carefully, and I had no wish to appear slovenly
or shiftless. I shuddered at those words. They were too
easily and too often applied to the mothers or fathers
of large families. No one ever seemed to consider that
our marriage was a Sacrament, and that our children were
the lucky children of a stable home, something not seen
often enough in our time.

It hadn't been easy to maintain any kind of serenity
about being a big family, not with scientific advances
questioning our every thought, word and deed. No one
really knew how our farm had given us enough security
that we had never needed or considered public
assistance.

I didn't want charity this morning. I wanted the same
opportunity for a loan that was offered eagerly to men
and women with one or two children. I didn't want pity,
and I couldn't let myself be turned down. Not this time.
What I needed was little 'social justice' for myself and
my family.

Even so, I knew better that to begin with the baker who
held the mortgage on our land. when Joe had asked him
for a loan to build a new house months before, he had
laughed as he said, 'Are you out of your mind? Who'd
loan that kind of money to a man crazy enough to have
ten kids?'

So it was my turn to make the rounds. But when I told the
loan officers in the banks the size of my family, a
visible hautiness crept into their tones. During the
following days of money-shopping, I covered nearly every
credit organization in the county and was turned down by
them all.

Yet nothing could erase my fear when I laid my head on my
pillow at night. What of my children? It is possible to
keep an old house clean, and it is possible to keep our
children warm with the right clothing even in a drafty
old house! Our children were healthy. But for how long?
And what about that place under the sink where the floor
had rotted way, the damp odour of the house itself
rising from the ground? The rank sourness of rotting
timbers and mildewed wood.

Finally the Federal Land Bank man came out to see the
farm for himself. After r I listed our needs over a cup
of coffee, he had to admit that there was nothing he
could do.

'Your husband makes the biggest part of his income from
his job, and that makes him ineligible for a farm loan.'
he said. 'And while tree farming would do it in Alabama,
it hasn't passed for this state.' He thanked me kindly,
and walked toward the door.

But he was my last chance! If my own government, my own
country, didn't believe in us, then who else would? And
where was God when I needed Him?

'Mr. Smith!' I said, praying for the right words as my
chin thrust outward at its bulldog angle, 'Just a
minute! Stop right there! Now, please take a look at
that bathroom door that's leaning against the wall! It
fell off its hinges this morning this morning. And take
a look into the bathroom. Joe put a metal plate down so
we don't fall through, because there's no good wood to
nail new wood against. Everything turns to powder when
he tries to nail into it. It's the same with the front
porch. One of the children fell through up to his
armpits yesterday. he wasn't' hurt, but he could have
been killed! And come take a look under this sink. But
don't just look. Smell it! I was not brought up to be
either quiet or happy in a house like this, with the
rats playing hopscotch through the attic every night.
Someone has to do something! You can't just tell me no
and dispose of my family that easily!' My voice was
shaking.

I was ready to burst into tears, but I turned toward the
stove and choked them back as I picked dup the
percolator and poured us some more coffee. Mr. Smith sat
back down, a stunned look on his face.

'You're right you know,' he said, his blue eyes looking
around with new perspective. 'Have you tried
everyone.'

'Everyone.'

'The Farmer's Home administration?"

'No. Are they in the phone book?'

He nodded. 'But they're under the U.S. Government. And
for them the one stipulation is that you must not be
able to get credit from anyone else. Your problem with
credit might just make you eligible for a loan at less
interest than anyone else would charge.'

'You're kidding!' I said. I thanked him for the help.
After he left, I hurried to the phone book to make an
appointment.

The application for a loan was filled out in April. In
October a man from Spokane came to the farm to consider
our needs, and our house loan was verified shortly after
that - but too late to build that year.

We were ecstatic! God had given us a chance to leave the
old house! We drilled a new well in December, and
throughout the winter, whenever there were a few days
above freezing, Joe and the boys mixed small batches of
cement and poured them into home-made forms for the
foundation of our new fifteen room house. (Joe had
worked once as a cement finisher.)

I remember trying to tell the FHA man that the house need
not be big, but he insisted they would not lent to build
another slum. It must be big enough for the size of the
family.

Angela, our 11th child, was born that same winter. But
even so, I was able to spend time with the family,
watching them mix cement and shovel into the rocky
hillside for the basement of our new home.

On particularly warm winter day, blond curly-haired Ron
stopped digging for a moment and leaned against his
shovel. At eleven he was not able to help much with his
shovel, but he was willing. That day his eyes shone like
blue crystal as he looked at me, than back at the
foundation forms. 'y'know Mom,' he said, 'I can hardly
believe it's really happening. It doesn't seem
real!'

'What makes you say that? This is America! People can do
anything they set their minds to, God willing!'

'Yeah, I know. That's what the history books say, but it
doesn't always turn out like that.'

'If it doesn't, then it's because someone hasn't tried
hard enough!' I snapped.

I snapped at him because he had hit a sore spot. True,
that was the America I believed in, yet even so, we
nearly failed. And why? Even now, years later, when I
hear people grumbling about the high cost of welfare and
taxes to help the homeless, I'm still proud of our
family, and how it felt as all of us worked together! We
had a sure -fire philosophy at our house. Pray like
crazy, and then go for it!

The following July we began to build. I did all the
painting, while Joe did the tarring of the roof, with
the help of our boys and the generous advice and tar pot
of a professional roofer, a friend of ours.

Joe build the furnace, and helped with the plumbing.
Together the kids and I laid vinyl tile throughout. We
were determined not to move in until everything was
finished.

But God nudged us ahead of time. On Sunday, just before
Thanksgiving, Joe stood at the bathroom mirror shaving,
when a pipe inside the toilet tank broke and water shot
our from under the lid all over the floor! The boys
handed Joe tools as he plugged the leak, then tried to
see how much pipe he would need to repair the damage.
But like the rest of the house, there was nothing to
patch against. The pipes had corroded away. The toilet
became only a fixture, and Joe built a temporary
outhouse until moving day. We stepped up our work
speed.

Since the night of the rat, we were desperate to leave
the old house. The year before I had poisoned rats
unmercifully. Behind dressers, in pans in the attic, and
behind the freezer in the utility room. Things the baby
couldn't move or crawl behind. I had become resigned to
the job knowing that warfarin, because it causes
internal bleeding, would give the rats a terrible
thirst. They would leave the house and die beside the
creek outside, to be disposed of safely.

But now, though I watched my toddlers as carefully as I
could, the baby was learning to walk and sometimes got
away from me. One rainy afternoon as I stirred the stew
in the kitchen, and while the older children were
outside doing their chores, I suddenly felt that shivery
feeling. Something was awfully wrong. Where was Bobby? I
had seen him only minutes before, but now it was very
quiet.

I went looking for him. He was in the living room,
squatting behind the couch, and he was pulling on the
tail of a lethargic, dying rat.

'Bobby!' I screeched. I swooped him up under one arm and
carried him into the bathroom for a thorough scrubbing.
When the baby had been cleaned and the poisoned rat
disposed of, I sat down and shook. 'O God, what will
happen next?' It is true that kids are tougher than we
think, but I could not help being terrified and
revolted. I'd seen the fear and horror felt by other
mothers, and now their desolation swept over me and I
wept until I had no more tears.

'Please God,' I sobbed, 'Help us finish this house! Our
babies, too, have a right to be safe.'

We worked even harder, but never again did I let my baby
out of my sight! Pop was nearly finished with the
cabinets and they were beautiful! I spent every day
laying vinyl tile to hurry the day we'd move. the older
children helped after school. We finished a room a day,
all but the corners, which needed both precision and
strong hands. Joe finished that after work and every
evening a room's furniture was moved in and the children
with it - the older ones first, of course.

We finished moving on Thanksgiving Day. We could
celebrate our first meal in the big dining room. The
smell of sage stuffing filled the house as Joe carried
the golden brown turkey to the dining room, then began
to carve. The rest of us slid into chairs around the
table ready to say grace together. It is our custom
every Thanksgiving to let each person tell what he or
she is most thankful for.

This year it was unanimous. Our new house!

Then eleven year old Ron looked at me across the table
and his voice grew quiet. 'Y'know, Mom, I never thought
we'd make it. I can hardly believe it. I never thought
we'd get the breaks, like other people do.'

In one succinct sentence he had exposed a greater threat
than any rat could ever be - the effects of slum living
on the minds of children. Joe and I never suspected that
such damage was being done. Now, as Joe, Pop, and I
looked at one another, we knew that our old house - and
our poverty - had given our children a mistaken outlook
on life. We had not prevented the easy acceptance of
failure from seeping into their young minds. We'd been
both competent and responsible parents. We had learned
how much courage it takes to succeed at life. Yet,
without realising it we had very nearly sent our
children into the world without that most priceless gift
God gives to His People - faith in Him.

They'd known the sting of poverty, the feel of the slum,
but this new house, built by love, represented the grace
of God; it showed our kids vital proof that anything is
possible - if we pray like crazy, then work at it. We'd
built more than a house - we'd built a ladder to the
stars for our children. And to think we'd almost missed
it! We had our prayers and our God! We believed He ruled
the universe and yet we had to be reminded of it within
our family. Thank God for the rat which terrified me and
started it all!